When the rain starts to pour
by braille upon my skin
Summary: Troy gets caught in the rain, and a certain theater kid comes to his rescue.


**A/N:** I've been in quite a bit of a slump, lately, to be honest with you guys. I've been struggling to see any merit or purpose to anything I create. I guess that's one of the downsides of writing for a fandom on life-support. 

Anyway, I hope you guys will enjoy this. The idea to write it just came to me, one morning, when I was taking a walk in the rain.

.

.

* * *

 _ **When the rain starts to pour**_

;

Troy wipes at his nose with his sleeve, having no tissues at hand, and winces, disgusted with himself, at the snotty, mucus-y mess.

On any other day, he wouldn't mind the shower of rain pouring down on him; soaking his hair and plastering his clothing to his body. But, today, he has a nasty cold. He spent most of the school day hacking until his lungs hurt, sneezing hard enough to rattle his brain around in his skull, and sniffling miserably.

Gabriella shot him sympathetic looks, but he didn't miss her liberal use of hand sanitizer after every bit of scarce contact they had with each other.

He can't say he blames her. If it wasn't for the big, end of the unit exam in his AP English class, he would be at home, in bed, curled up under his quilt- and probably marinating in a pool of his own sweat- rather than spreading his sickness to the entirety of the East High student body.

His sinuses are beyond congested. His brain feels like there's a wall of insulation wrapped around it, and all he can think about is sleep.

He wishes his truck wasn't parked in the garage, awaiting repairs. He wishes he would have boarded the bus with Gabriella, even though he's sure the jouncing of the vehicle and the volume of so many voices shouting over each other in such a confined space would have given him a migraine.

So, he's standing in the parking lot of East High, waiting for his dad to give him a ride home.

He checks his wrist through bleary, half-open eyes, and is jarred by its bareness until he remembers that he's never worn a watch. He's never needed one. His internal clock is usually pretty reliable.

At the moment, however, even that seems to be out of order.

Troy sniffles again, and slumps against the side of the school building. He's closing his eyes, preparing to slip under the thick gauze covering his brain, when there's a noticeable break in the downpour.

His eyes flutter open. He sniffs again, suppressing a cough, as he discerns a familiar white hand holding a bright blue umbrella over his head.

"Hey," Ryan Evans's voice offers, sheepish.

"Hey," Troy replies. A smile tugs at his lips.

Ryan is wearing a black, vinyl rain slicker that even Troy can tell is stylish- and expensive. "Waiting for your dad?" He asks.

"Yeah."

Ryan looks toward the school building, his neatly groomed eyebrows knitting. "Hopefully, he won't be too much longer."

"Yeah-" Troy starts, only to break off into another coughing fit. He caps it off with a sneeze for good measure.

"Sharpay, Kelsi, and I are still in rehearsals. Kelsi usually has a pot of tea, freshly brewed, sitting in the music room. It helps calm her nerves when Sharpay decides to be needlessly difficult."

Troy tilts his head. He hopes snot isn't dripping out of his nose. He's sure he already looks like something the cat dragged in.

"You could wait with us." Ryan's eyes shine with hope, and he shuffles his feet in such an endearing way that, once more, Troy finds himself unable to say no.

"Sounds great." Troy smiles, then feels snot flowing toward the edges of his nostrils. He doesn't want to have to wipe it on his sleeve in front of Ryan, but what else can he-?

Wordlessly, Ryan extracts a pack of tissues from the pocket of his slicker, and, fast as lightning, is holding them in front of Troy.

"Thank you," Troy says. Something stirs in his chest… a sort of ache. He takes the pack and manages to pull a tissue out and wipe his nose, even with wet hands.

"Don't mention it." Ryan's candied lips quirk into a soft smile. "Let's just get you inside before you catch your death." He offers a hand that Troy takes. The appendage is cool to the touch, as usual, but surprisingly _warm_ against Troy's rain-drenched skin.

Together, they hoist Troy onto his feet.

Troy's head feels like it's submerged under water, and he staggers, his knees almost buckling. He hears Ryan's light voice, muffled, like Troy is lying at the bottom of a full bathtub and Ryan is calling out to him from somewhere outside the tub, fretting over him, and feels Ryan's hands bracing him.

Maybe it's the cold talking, but Troy kind of really wants those hands to stay where they are; on his chest and back, between his shoulder blades.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks. His genuine concern causes a twisting sensation in Troy's abdomen.

Summoning up enough self-awareness to not want Ryan worrying about him, Troy hauls his body upright, and assures him, "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine."

Ryan's subsequent look is dubious, but he leads Troy back into the building without any further questions, holding his umbrella over both of their heads. Once Troy is inside, Ryan takes a second to shake his umbrella off just outside the doors before rejoining him. "Hold on a second," he calls as Troy is turning to make the walk to the auditorium.

Troy spins on his heel to face Ryan. His brain is fogging up, again, but the fog lifts slightly as Ryan timidly takes the front of Troy's t-shirt into his hands and rings it out. Like it's nothing.

Like looking after Troy comes easily for him.

The fabric feels lighter and dryer as it's smoothed back into place against Troy's skin.

"Thanks." Heat floods Troy's cheeks, and he knows he doesn't have a fever.

Ryan just smiles, dipping his head. Along the way, Ryan sheds his slicker, folding it and draping it over his arm in a smooth, graceful motion. Troy follows along, concentrating on the clacking and squeaking of their shoes against the tiled floor, and the way Ryan's pants- sky colored jeggings- cling to his nicely shaped calves, to keep himself lucid.

They use the back entrance to the auditorium, which perplexes Troy, but Ryan just continues on toward the dressing rooms.

"You're sopping wet. You didn't think I'd leave you sitting in those soaked clothes, did you?"

The gauzy haze over his brain leaves Troy unable to do much more than gape and fight back another cough.

Once they're in the men's dressing room- the lighting is just as poor as Troy remembers from the hours he spent in here during the winter musical, last school year- Ryan discards his coat and umbrella, pulls out a hairdryer, plugs the dryer in, and aims it at Troy's clothes.

"I'm sorry," he explains unnecessarily over the blast of sound. "We don't really have anything dry for you to change into that's not a costume."

"That's okay." The heat from the hairdryer is actually very welcome. Troy spins about without instruction, letting the hot air envelope him until he feels like he's nestled under a cocoon of blankets.

When he's determined that the t-shirt, flannel, and jeans are sufficiently dry, Ryan turns the dryer off and tosses Troy a towel for his hair.

"You're a real life-saver," Troy tells him, managing to grin and catch the towel despite the fact that he still can't quite breathe through his nose.

"Me? Nah." Ryan ducks his head in an attempt to conceal the grin trying to dominate his own face. The attempt is unsuccessful. "I just couldn't leave you-"

Troy sneezes, loudly.

" _Gesundheit_."

"Thank you."

Troy is still toweling his hair off as Ryan leads him by the hand out of the dressing room, up the stairs, back out through the rear entrance of the auditorium, and to the music room.

A tiny, multicolored tea kettle, decorated in a floral pattern that reminds Troy of a little girl's tea set, sits on the black grand piano at the far corner of the room.

Troy drapes the towel around his neck and watches intently as Ryan grabs the kettle and a mug; an East High School one with a red paw print on the front of it. He pours the contents of the kettle into the mug, and as steam curls up from the cup, the smell of the tea- chamomile, Troy guesses- hits Troy's nose, and he can already breathe a little easier.

"Here you are. I hope it isn't too bitter." Ryan extends the mug to Troy, who accepts it, nodding and sniffling graciously.

One careful sip alleviates some of the soreness in Troy's throat. It's not chicken soup, but he'll take it. Even though the potent aftertaste makes him wince. "You're amazing," he says quietly, in a sort of near-delirious awe.

He means it even more when it occurs to him that Ryan has made no move to sanitize himself.

The East High mug accompanies Troy and Ryan as they venture over to the auditorium, slipping in under the cover of an energetic piano piece and Sharpay's powerful vocalizations.

"How are rehearsals going?" Troy asks. He finishes sending his dad a text to inform him of his whereabouts, and slips his phone back into his pocket. He's about to take the seat right beside Ryan, when Sharpay's foot stomps against the stage.

"From the top!" She insists, her voice booming in the unnaturally empty theater.

It feels like hundreds of tiny feet tromping all over Troy's brain. He drops into the seat, prepared to put the towel over his head if it will help muffle the piercing sounds coming from the female Evans twin's mouth.

"About as well as they can when Sharpay is the show's lead," Ryan answers drily.

Troy offers him a commiserative grimace. He has a vague knowledge that the production is entitled _A Night on Curtain Street_ , from seeing the sign-up sheet for auditions in the hallway.

Onstage, Sharpay saunters toward the piano Kelsi is sitting at, and lists off what Troy is sure are multiple alterations and mandates that must be done to keep her placated.

Kelsi nods along and begins scribbling furiously on her clipboard, looking, to her credit, more resigned than fazed.

"Being a supporting character has its perks, though," Ryan says.

"Oh?" Troy turns toward him, brows arced with intrigue.

"I already have my lines memorized, for starters, so I get plenty of downtime between scenes where I can do my homework…"

"Or rescue a sick person from the rain," Troy chips in playfully. He has to sniff again, but Ryan's grin causes one to work its way across his face, too.

"That was more of an 'exception to the rule' type of deal."

"So… I'm an exception?" Once more, that something stirs in Troy's chest.

"Always." Ryan's gaze and tone are so serious, it almost sounds like there's a lump in his throat.

Troy's throat tightens, in kind, and he stares down into his mug of tea, like the dark, pleasant-smelling liquid holds the answer to a question he hasn't quite worked up the nerve to ask.

As Ryan refocuses on Sharpay's antics onstage, Troy slowly leans in and lets his head rest against Ryan's shoulder. The material of Ryan's sweater is soft, like a fluffy bath towel fresh out of the dryer.

Ryan tenses, but doesn't flinch away.

"You're not worried about catching my cold?" Troy looks to Ryan, eyes sweeping over his delicate- pretty, even- features.

Ryan's only reply is a noncommittal hum. He eases back into his chair.

Into Troy.

Some time later, Troy feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him from one of the more restful sleeps he's had.

He starts awake, and his first concern is for the mug. Where is…? He didn't drop it and spill its contents all over the seat, the floor, _Ryan_ … His panic subsides when he spots the white ceramic cup sitting safely at Ryan's feet.

"Troy. Come on. Let's go," his father's voice says.

Troy raises his eyes from the floor to Ryan, and finds Ryan giving him a wistful look as he worries his lower lip between his teeth.

A pang fires off in Troy's chest. He doesn't really want to leave. But, he stumbles to his feet, still half-asleep, realizes that the towel is still around his neck and removes it to place it in Ryan's outstretched hand, and follows after his dad. He feels Ryan's eyes on him on his way out the door, and means to turn back and mouth, "See you tomorrow".

Instead, their eyes lock, and the verging on yearning in Ryan's eyes tugs at Troy's center.

That night, as Troy's head hits the pillows and he pulls his quilt up around his shoulders, for just a moment before sleep whisks him away, he lets himself imagine that he's snuggled against Ryan's shoulder and the warmth from Ryan's body is seeping into his skin to chase the sickness out.


End file.
